


Twisted Tragedy

by jongincident



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 04:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13896213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongincident/pseuds/jongincident
Summary: In a world of gods and demons, Jeongguk found Taehyung.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> \- published 4/20/17 on aff -
> 
> I originally was going to write seven chapters for each of the characters and not have any romantic pairings, but instead I just wrote a shorter fic for Taekook.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to these amazing fic writers that will never know me but they are still my inspiration:
> 
> \- lethallergic on ao3 and the fic “something to do with hands”—this fic got me into taekook
> 
> \- fliuor on asianfanfics and the fic “and the rose said to me”--you are my writing style goals

 

 

Dear reader,

It’s a pleasure to find that another person (or should I say victim) is interested in digesting the story I am about to tell—ready to relinquish his/her soul to be controlled by a narrative. Alas, when I am no longer fit for my sole purpose of relaying, you can step in my position and keep the story forever in our society’s presence. From mouth to mouth, what was once a type of “historical account” will only become a meaningless fable or legend, until every being knows it from heart, without questioning its genuine content. And you will die with the pride knowing that you are among the first few that had the opportunity of exposure to such a tale; I do not doubt that this will be your most significant accomplishment. In the modern world, people like you and I are the storytellers for the future, and maybe you will be remembered like the heroes of yesterday.

Before turning to the first chapter, I would like to give a cautionary admonition: this is a tale of a tragedy— an atrocity to the morals of nature, and at first glance, all would think he is a disgrace. But being beautifully broken is such a unique part of his character that mending him back together would be stealing his identity. I will take your hand and dive deep beneath his skin, and when you touch his raw, colorful emotions, you will learn to love this pulchritudinous cataclysm.

  
 

— Jeon Jeongguk

 


	2. Twisted Tragedy

**[Tae](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/22/7f/01/227f015a8e065e58697f530f24c8843d.gif) | [Hyung](https://fangirl24.files.wordpress.com/2016/02/bts-gif-v-bangtan-favim-com-3393329.gif)  click for character visuals**

 

_Menoetius: meaning “doomed might;” titan of violent anger, rash action, and human mortality._

 

This tragedy is the modern personification of Menoetius:

 

***

 

When you first hear the words “violence” and “anger,” the image you envision is of a schadenfreude—an oppressive tyrant who inhumanely abuses his power to commit mass genocide against the innocent. The world, in the palm of his hand, bends on his whim, and the heads of his enemies are displayed lavishly like a trophy case. His imperturbable eyes pierce through your skin and latch onto your deepest fears, until you choke on agony and beseech for mercy, even though all he did was stare.

 

I can assure you, Kim Taehyung was the polar opposite, or though it seemed at first.

 

Taehyung was rose petals blowing in the soft wind; he was a lone star in the milky way, whose light was seen by no one for light-years around; he was a clock with its handles frozen from lack of use, and he was a memory that had long been forgotten. In other words, he was a lost soul, perhaps a lost identity, unnoticed in the indifference of the world. One could see it in his eyes, how they were either never focused in one spot for more than a few seconds, or staring off into nothingness, how they lacked a spirit, dull and glazed over. His smiles ended at his lips, and never quite spread to the rest of his countenance.

 

His voice was somber and deep, a little husky and hollow, and one that didn’t know him well would even say that it was soulful. And maybe they were correct; maybe his soul lived in his voice and not his body. It would explain how I occasionally caught him humming to an unknown melody, and in those moments, I thought he had found himself at last, but his blank visage proved me wrong;

 

Those who didn’t know him well also thought he was a peculiar outcast, a slighter version of “gothic,” and I saw why at first. He was always dressed head-to-toe in black, from his boots to his skinny jeans, to his black hoodie with a worn leather jacket on top, and his bangs just barely hung over his eyes. Once when his sleeves were rolled up enough, I even caught a glimpse of a tattoo of a Yin Yang (I only learned of this meaning until later). Whenever he walked alone, he would put on his hood so that his face was secluded in the shadows.

 

It broke my heart (and still does). He acted as if he were terrified of the concept of opening up to others, afraid that if they saw his face, perhaps they saw a little bit deeper into his awfully desolate heart. Or maybe he was so _beautiful_ that he could not afford for the malignant world to defile his purity.

 

I cannot quite remember how we first met, but I would say that instead of crossing paths, our lives collided with full force. I only recall him meticulously taking off his hood as to not dishevel his hair, and the moment I laid eyes on his face, I was so appalled by his appearance that I could not utter a word. His features were soft, so delicate that I did not want to touch him, but lined with grief, deeper than the ocean blue. At first glance, I was trapped in an emotional connection so strong that I could no longer distinguish my sentiments from his. For a moment, I lived the pain that he felt—weathered down and on the brink of collapsing. Oh, and those vacuous eyes—how I wanted to fill them with color again!

 

“Who are you?” he had asked. No formal greeting, not even a “hello.”

 

So engrossed was I in his face that I had almost forgotten to respond. When I realized that he had spoken, I blinked, then shifted my gaze away. “You mean my name?”

 

“No. Who are you? Why did God make you like this?” He had seemed to almost beg for an answer, so desperate that he locked his eyes with mine and refused to look away until I satisfied im with an answer. Instead of being pierced, I was swallowed whole by those empty irises.

 

“I-I don’t know.” To this day, I still can’t put a concrete explanation for why I felt like crying after that response. It was as if I had been a failure, like when a mother finally crushed her starry-eyed child’s dream of being a princess. My heart ached, and I wanted to tear it out of my chest and offer it as a sacrifice for my mediocre answer.

 

***

 

Our get-togethers subconsciously became a weekly routine. We would sit side by side in silence, a good kind of silence where we were immersed in our own thoughts, and it would always be him to break it first. He would ask the most absurd question, like “is it fair for a worm to exist?”, but always related it to a deep concept I would have never taken the time to think about. It was in these rare instances that I learned most about him—the few words that left his mouth allowed me to find the cracks in his phlegmatic nature.

 

(Taehyung’s answer to that question was yes; if mankind is cruel enough to pollute and slaughter the gifts of Mother Earth, it is only equal for them to have more than one heart to live.)

 

***

 

There was one time in June, a few months after our first confrontation, when he was late to our weekly gathering.

 

I did not leave, despite the blaring rays of the sun heating up my back, for I knew that he would come sooner or later. I waited, sitting in silence as nature stirred around me.

 

I had never been the type of person to spend my idle time solitarily, but in those moments, I saw why people like Taehyung actually found tranquility in being alone.

 

I did not feel as though I was only a single component in a vast sea of seven billion human beings, where my existence was irrelevant in the countless of lives emerging each day. It was just nature and I, in a bubble of hardly a mile in diameter where I was the sole human ruler. And there, I was not displayed for others to judge every miniscule action. My thoughts could flow freely, expressed in my face and hands, without the heavy burden of innumerable eyes weighing me down. I could forget and put off my daily pressures for just a moment.

 

So free did I feel that I was almost annoyed at the footsteps that broke my temporary pleasure. I swirled my head around and narrowed my eyes at the intruder. When I saw that it was Taehyung, my cheeks flushed in embarrassment. From the very first day, he was my weak spot, and I could never stay angry in his presence.

 

His eyes didn’t leave the ground when he sat down beside me, as if he was deliberately concealing his face. I scooted closer and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, and at last his head tilted up in a wince.

 

That was when I saw it—an ugly bruise blooming across his left eye, which had swollen half-shut.

 

“Your eye…” My voice came out raspy. I was unable to control the pain that reciprocated in my own body. I knew I looked weak, for who felt pain at someone else’s injury? But what could I do? Taehyung held this power over me, and I could only submit to these overwhelming emotions.

 

He placed a finger on the bruise. “Oh this? I accidentally walked into a pole. Really don’t advise it.”

 

The bruise did not look like a mere accident to me, though. If you looked closely enough, you could see that it was not one large circular bruise, but consisted of a few smaller oval shapes, like the imprints of knuckles on skin. But I did not say that out loud.

 

This time, it was I who asked the question first. It had been nagging at me for a while now.

 

“What do you usually do during the day that can get you a bruise like that?” I asked, albeit cautiously. I had never seen him at school, only on the streets and right here.

 

“Oh, you know. This and that.” He shrugged. Again, trying to avoid my interrogation.

 

***

 

What was not apparent at first was that Taehyung was not weak in the sense that he let others step over him. In fact, he never really was weak at all, as I found out later. Sure, he would ask profound questions like the lost boy he was, but that didn’t stop the slight edge—sometimes in the form of sarcasm—to find a spot through his voice.

 

It was like self defense. He would start off with the question, let me answer it, and his own answer began with intensity, then ended even sadder he was originally.

 

It was mid-August and we were lying out under the stars. We had both been reluctant to end our weekly rendezvous that night. He pointed out constellations and told me the stories of how they had come to be. Our sides were pressed against each other, and there were pools of warmth where we made contact. It was dark around us, but the moonlight spilled onto his face at exactly the right angle when he suddenly turned to look at me.

 

“Am I dying?” he asked, his voice deeper than the galaxy.

 

“Of course not. You’re perfectly alive.”

 

“Wrong. I am alive, only because I have not yet died. The moment we are born, we progress toward our final day. It’s a natural paradox. We are so afraid of death, yet we are born dying all along.”

 

Sometimes I felt as though he asked me those questions simply to prove how smart he was.

 

That night, I wished upon a falling star: in the next life, please let our paths cross again.

 

***

 

In my high school days, I frankly did not give a damn about my studies. It was Taehyung who later inspired me to go to college and study psychology, but that is irrelevant in this context and a story meant for a later time. People say that Asians should excel at mathematics, but I was living proof that the claim was false. Math was my worst nemesis; me with my refusal to study, and he giving me failing grades in retaliation.

 

At the lowest of the low, my teacher forced me to take tutoring sessions at the library. My lazy self would not have gone if Mr. Min had not spoken to my mother directly about my failing grades. And she, like the tiger mom she was, would not give no for an answer.

 

On the first day of the tutoring session, she dropped me off a solid thirty minutes early.

 

“Son, you better turn those C’s into A’s, you understand me?”

 

“Yes.” I bowed my head in contempt.  Her penetrating stare was like a dagger to my ego. I was always known to be a good child, but I could never fulfill her dreams of being the top of my class.

 

I know my mother intended for me to be productive in those extra thirty minutes. She should have known better; I could not stay still for longer than ten minutes, and ended up exploring the unfamiliar building. It was my first time stepping foot in the city’s library. I had just moved there a year ago, and going to the library had not been in my interest, due to my absolute lack of enthusiasm in reading and studying in general.

 

The third and uppermost floor was reserved for postmodernism. Although I understood nothing of that literature, the third floor contained the least amount of people—the perfect place for me to start to uncover secrets.

 

It did not take long for me to become bored of the minimal diversity that the section held. I should have expected less. After all, why would a philistine like me ever enjoy a library? It was just shelves of books with unpronounceable European last names, like Foucault, Hidedigger, and Dilluse. It was no wonder there was scarcely any readers around.

 

I walked back toward the stairs in disappointment. Perhaps the second floor would serve as a more interesting starting point.

 

I remember precisely that it was in the “B” aisle when I stumbled over a pile of books and fell straight into a reader with his nose buried deep into Baudrillard.

 

“I’m sorry,” I hurriedly bowed and apologized. I did not want to stir up trouble just a few minutes before the tutoring would begin.

 

“Are you?” A familiar voice deeper than the galaxy floated into my ear.

 

I glanced up at its owner. He had lifted the book and revealed his face.

 

My breath caught in my throat as I was again entranced by Taehyung’s majestic features, sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The dim light from above casted shadows that contoured his golden skin. I wanted to sweep his bangs up from hiding beauty not meant to be obscured, and drown in his fathomless eyes. I had the sudden urge to run my finger over the perfect arch of his nose, and cup his jawline, even though I knew it was sharp like a knife and could draw blood from my fingertips.

 

I inched closer. His rosebud lips parted, but I could not hear what he said. My pounding heart was too deafening when it echoed inside me.

 

By now, I could feel his warm breaths leave tingles on my neck. We were so close that I could count his eyelashes, could see how they fluttered when he blinked. He didn’t back away, and my delusional mind took it as an invitation.

 

It was a spur of a moment thing, at that time out of curiosity. I tiptoed and placed my lips onto his own soft, plush ones. And maybe it was just my own fantasy, but we molded together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle. Though it was short, I would never forget his distinct taste—like sweet mint, like a snowflake caught on my tongue, like a star that glowed just enough for the two of us.

 

When I the kiss ended and I awoke my dazed mind, realizing what I had just done, I fled before I could see Taehyung’s expression.

 

To this day, I still do not know if he enjoyed it as much as I did.

 

***

 

The following week, there was no mention of the kissing incident from either of us. Neither was there any hinting, or perhaps I was just not aware. I was glad that it was not brought up; our friendship was special to me and I did not want to ruin it.

 

What I did learn though, was that he spent most of his time in the library, on the third floor because he had already finished finish the first and second.

 

When I questioned why he chose not to go to school, he replied, “school is like a monotonous, capitalist society--it turns us into machines and drains the value out of our lives. You’re expected to work for eight hours at school, go home and work for another four hours, memorize facts, take tests...and all for what? When you’re done with school, you get forced into a job in which you have to work even _more_. The only freedom you get is when you retire, but by then you’re so old and worrying that your life is going to end anytime. And some of us don’t even make it that far. Their life ends before they know what any freedom tastes like.”

 

“Why the library then?”

 

His reply to the latter question was the first time I saw a glint in his eye. “I don’t know about you, but every time I step into the library, I am amazed again and again at how much knowledge is stored in a single building. There is so much to discover in a book; so much intelligence and creativity spilled in the pages that I just want to live long enough to read until I know at least a little bit of everything.”

 

“Don’t you already know a little bit of everything though?” I asked skeptically.

 

He shrugged, and the glint disappeared from his eyes. “Almost, almost.”

 

***

 

I thought I had a decent understanding of Taehyung’s enigmatic personality after our conversations, which were not few, nor were they particularly short in length. It was my mistake for assuming that what I had experienced were the only sides to him, for it had only been a few months since we had first met. Of course, I did not expect him to be a one-dimensional robot; I did see the layers: the rebellious teenager as the outward surface, dig a little deeper to discover the lost philosopher, and the most inner layer was the fading of a star tinged in sadness.

 

Moreover, I cannot fathom why I did not question his source of grief—I think he was too faceted of a character that when I had tried to discover his true personality, I had focused merely on his traits instead of inquiring how they had come to be. It was only a few months after our first encounter until I finally caught a glimpse of his innermost version he had hidden so well…

 

***

 

Taehyung was not always crafted of melancholy and veins flowing with sorrow. He was more so than not, that is an undoubted statement, but it was not impossible to witness those days when his whole aura changed altogether. Those days were always during the first eight days of winter, starting on the winter solstice. For the next one-hundred-ninety-two hours, he was practically an unrecognizable being—delight lingering in his smile, and eyes curved like crescents and overflowing with blitheness—a different kind of beauty, like fingers glowing with sunlight.

 

He informed me of this miracle himself, and at first I was thoroughly convinced that he was less human and more robot, a precisely calculated countdown grenade if you must. As I look back, I think that his “halcyon week” (as I like to call it) had been a deliberate attempt to force himself to feel content amidst the melancholia when he was younger, and it had gradually developed to be a naturally occurring process, without need for mental exertion.

 

It was on the last day of the annual halcyon week when I encountered Taehyung’s radiant persona—with an earbud dangling in one ear and his step carrying an extra skip. His clothing changed as well, with pops of color highlighting his mood.

 

“Hey Jeongguk! How is your day?” He greeted me first, and his speech sounded a bit musical. So different from the lost boy whose acknowledgement was silence.

 

Although it filled me with solace that Taehyung had found his joy, I could not help but feel nostalgic for his idiosyncratic characteristics that had vanished, like his profound questions and his ability to make my emotions match his own. That was when I discovered that the “improved” person in front of me was not the same Taehyung I knew, and the change had not only been superficial. I _should_ have burned with hatred, but instead I only fell deeper into the well of love for Taehyung’s old self—the authentic, raw him was a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

 

Nonetheless, I kept to his side—chained with him because of my never-ending curiosity and yearning to find any sign of his traditional self. “Good,” I replied. And this time, instead of escaping to our sacrosanct little place—a gap in this bustling world where we held most of our private conversations—he veered to the main road and led me to an awfully typical suburban neighborhood.

 

It was the first time Taehyung had invited me to his house, and truthfully, I was surprised. I had always regarded him as a passive character with a hidden past, and forgot that he too, must have somewhere to go back to after our midnight stargazing excursions and his hours of scavenging the library. I don’t think “home” is the appropriate term to call the plain gray walls that just happened to form a living structure. Yet the dismal ambience did not drag down his heightened spirits.

 

“Let me introduce you to my sister,” he gushed. When he mentioned her, his eyes were no longer soulless, no longer lost orbs, but twinkling with stardust, and I could tell that Taehyung’s reason for still existing today was thanks to her.

 

I was about to reply with a comment on how I was eager to meet her. My mouth parted, but there was no time for sound to come out before I was interrupted by a shriek that penetrated the gloomy silence of the bare hallway. It sent a chill running down my spine, starting from the hairs on the back of my neck that stood straight up.

 

I barely had time to register the myriad of events that squeezed into the mere fractions of time that followed. I do remember certain flashes, a little too perfectly and grotesque for my taste. Like how Taehyung’s worriless physiognomy contorted into one of sheer madness, how the door slamming open against the wall produced an echo that hung still in the dry air, and how I finally noticed the shards of broken glass that littered the floor, and suddenly my memory skips to the worst of it all...

 

Taehyung’s determined face and knuckles stained with scarlet, not an inch of hesitation between the sharp ridges of the empty beer bottle held in his hands and his father’s stomach, the repeated jabs that sent his father’s body jerking with dehumanization, blood splattering the gray walls with fireworks of color; his sister pressed against the floor with purple bruises blooming on her bare back, the screams that electrified my spine before I realized that they had left my own lips...

 

Taehyung’s actions were not meant to hurt; they were meant to kill. At last the final choking globule of blood came spilling out onto his father hands, which were fruitless in trying to prevent his life from seeping out of the gaping hole in his stomach.

 

And then, all was silent.

 

In that instant, I almost doubted myself—was Taehyung a kalopsia? Was I perhaps delusionary in believing that he was truly beautiful? Was he...a monster? _No_ , I thought, it could not be. Because the Taehyung I knew had not yet found his worth in the world, and although was a tad bit confused, would never harm with purpose, and his unfocused eyes and fragile face could never burn purposefully with fury.

 

So then, what was he?

 

It was inevitable for me to fear what I thought was a creature that had possessed him. No, I feared not Kim Taehyung himself, but whatever I believed that had taken control of his mind and sucked the humanity out of him.

 

I did not stay to see his father crumple to the floor, nor did I hear the man’s ragged breathing that was evanescing as the seconds ticked by. I was long gone when at last, his eyelids stopped fluttering and stayed closed.

 

I heartlessly ran out of his house, wanting to escape the terrors imprinted in my mind. I hoped for it to be a dream. Like the fire in his eyes, and how he ignored all pleads of forgiveness. I wanted it all to go away. I wanted to wake up and find the old Taehyung again, and the incident just a phantasm. I should have realized that my cowardness left him deserted and betrayed.

 

Now I understand that it was not an alien spirit that had inhabited his body, but rather a wholly different side, the last secret layer, the black half of the yin yang. Ironically, the unleashing of this character was the key to solving the mystery of Kim Taehyung. It was the root cause of his misery—to know that he had the power to harm even the people he loved most, and that when he returned to sanity, it would be too late to take back the effects.

 

Each time the damage occurred, it must have sucked the life out of his eyes until there was no more glint left. It was why he questioned—because he was proof that not all is what it is on the surface, because he did not know why God would create someone as destructive as himself, because he was a flaw of nature and was not supposed to exist!

 

***

 

The next day, I unconsciously found my way to our sacred location, like I did every Tuesday of every week. So did Taehyung. He was there before me, his eyes staring up to the sky in thought.

 

When I saw him, guilt gnawed at my chest until all that was left was the hollowed skeleton of my ribcage.

 

I sat down beside him and all he did was spare a glance at me. The silence between us was no longer the good type. It was the painful kind, where both of us wanted to break the awkwardness, but were afraid that the discussion would end up leading to the incident of the day before, and that was a sensitive topic we were not ready to discuss. We racked our brains for anything else to talk about, but the attempt was futile, our lips opening to start but no sound emitted.

 

_How do you feel?_ I wanted to ask. _Will you be okay?_

 

And what I did not want to admit—I’m sorry. I won’t leave you like that again.

 

The whole meeting went by without a word passed. It is my life’s biggest regret.

 

***

 

A week after, I again turned up at our meeting place. I suppose anyone else would have stayed away. Anyone else would still have been scarred, haunted by periodic nightmares of themselves as Taehyung’s victims, fearful that they would see his bipolarity in action again. They would not have taken a single glance back at the dwindling life they had just abandoned. But I was never like the ordinary. I wanted to release the awkwardness of the week before off my chest, to at least end in good terms. Now, I realize that I simply craved to find his lost beauty again.

 

My heart sank down to my stomach when I arrived to the absence of his form. The bench we usually sat upon looked so forlorn without his body hunched over, his hands deep in his pockets and despair sprinkled on his face. Even the wind howled in mourning of the empty space.

 

But wait! What was that in his place? I peered closer and discovered a torn piece of paper held down by a pebble, its edges worn by friction. A scrawl of messy handwriting read “meet me at the start of life.”

 

As soon as I finished reading, I immediately canceled all plans for that day. I prayed that I would not be too late.

 

***

 

When the sun kisses the horizon, the sky blushes in a rainbow of warmth to show off her utmost beauty before she turns dark. It’s a farewell parting so bittersweet, a goodbye to a loved one that you may not see again.

 

When the sun kisses the ocean, the waves glow in color from the outside in, because swallowing light turns the dangerous depths into a fantastical dream. It’s a bend in the laws of nature when fire at last links fingers with water, a reunion of the never-meant-to-be.

 

The ocean is a magical place, or at least I used to believe. It’s where waves crash but never break. It’s where empires are tossed under the current and never found again. It’s the only place on planet earth untouched by humanity; humans are afraid of dark and the ocean swallows light whole.

 

The ocean is where I found Taehyung.

 

He was sitting with his legs dangled off the ledge of a structure. Beneath his feet was not ground, but water of unknown depths, stained with the colors of the sky. His signature look had returned—the faraway gaze and the blank expression tainted with mountains of burden.

 

It wasn’t until I reached him when I noticed the slight physical distinction that made all the difference. His eyes were no longer the monotonous, dull gray I was so accustomed to. Nor were they twinkling with stardust. No, they shared the same reflection as the ocean—usually void of light but now painted in glorious hues.

 

He hurriedly stood up when he noticed my presence.

 

“Jeongguk. You’re here,” he said softly.

 

Of course. Did you think I was going to leave you alone? Did you think I did not care? You should know me better than that.

 

“Are you okay?” The words I had lost courage for at last tumbled out from my lips.

 

“Am I okay?” He paused for a moment. “Am I okay?” he repeated with added scorn, his face twisting into one of disgust. “Are you for real?”

 

What had I done? Did I say something wrong? “I didn’t mean it like that. I just-I meant that you can talk to me. If you need to, you can share some of your burden with me.”

 

His indignant expression melted off, but I breathed a sigh of relief too soon. “I know you’re trying to empathize, but you cannot. Tell me, do you know what it feels like to be blinded by white rage until you lose control of all that you know? To draw back with hands smeared in blood and unable to recall why, until the body in front of you is more corpse than man?”

 

Each sentence he finished, he took a step backward. The last step was a bit too large, and a bit too unexpected. My heart leapt out of my chest, but I caught his arm as his foot slipped, and his weight was just light enough for me to keep him from falling. My knuckles turned white in determination. I won’t leave you again.

 

That was when I noticed that his hands were tinted red, not fresh and bright, but a dry, maroon color. He must have killed again. I tried not to think who his victim was, and what the victim had done to deserve such a fate.

 

I looked directly into his eyes, and vowed myself not to sink into those magnificent orbs.

 

“Throat filled with guilt, you want to slice your heart open and see if there’s still a trace of goodness inside, but you’re terrified of what you could do with a knife in your hand? Trust me, I know.”

 

Taehyung looked startled—in a good way though, like he had not expected anyone to understand the complexities of his suffering. I know you more than you think I do, I wanted to say. You’re not alone in this fight.

 

The look quickly disappeared, and his eyes turned soft again. Then he smiled. It wasn’t like the smiles I had witnessed during the halcyon week. No, it was definitely characteristic to his current, forlorn self. The smile where his lips were just slightly turned up at the corners, and his eyes still holding the never-ending pain. But there was the slightest hint of a spark, one that signified hope, but I knew that the hope would not be found in this world.

 

“Almost.” Taehyung’s lips just barely moved as he spoke. “But you’ll never know what it feels like to be a terrible titan instead of a glorious god.”

 

And with that, he pried off my fingers from his arm. After all the countless times he had tried to fly in his lifetime, he had never succeeded. Now given up and wingless, he fell.

 

My eyes clouded with tears and throat burned like fire. It was like I was chained, unable to do something, anything that could save him, or what was left of his humanity. Not only the physical impossibility, but I knew he would hate me if I did. So I just watched.

 

I watched him close his eyes peacefully, his head tilted backward toward the sky, and his arms stretched out in liberation.

 

He submerged beneath the ocean without causing any disruption in its uniform surface.

 

_See you in the next world._

 

***

 

“Do you know where I want to die?” he had once asked me. Appalled by the sudden depressing topic, I had not responded. He continued, “I want to die in the ocean. I want to die where life originated, because it’s just so ironic, you know? And after I die, I don’t want to be dug up or discovered by archaeologists. I want my body to be swallowed by the waves and lost forever. Only then can I have another chance to be happy.”

 

The ocean is a magic place, because it reminds me of Taehyung. Beautiful at best, placidity and uniformity for miles on end, reflecting the color of the sky. Disastrous at worst, crushing houses and ecosystems, and swallowing people by the thousands, waves like mountains that impale the innocent. Mysterious, because it is impossible to uncover every inch of depth.

 

If I could go back in time, I would have told him that he never was evil. Evil is when one kills for pleasure, like the ruthless tyrant that doesn’t hesitate to behead even those who love him. If he had felt regret, if he had resented himself for harming, then he was inherently good. It was not his own fault for being crafted of the traits he possessed; perhaps if he had grown up in a different environment, he would not have been ill. But like the halcyon week, he would have lived in ignorance, and void of raw qualities.

 

But most importantly, I would have told him that his internal beauty outweighed any traces of ugliness. To be able to hold all the pain alone made him the strongest person I knew.

 

Because to me, he had always been a god.

 

And my heart had fallen with him.

 

_Just like I had fallen in love._  
 

***  
 

***

  
  
  
So, what do you say? Will you let him know a little bit of everything? Will you let him be a god?

 

 

 


End file.
